


Shockingly, it's still You.

by Be-morbidly-chill (RammBook)



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: (It's not graphic but its mentioned), (mentioned at least), A lot of them - Freeform, Accidents, Admittedly with a bit more Hurt, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Canonical Character Death, Electrical Accidents, Electrocution, Evan is going through it yall, Fixing Relationships, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Jared and Alana are friends but it's not the main focus, Okay after editing i'd like to say, Past Character Death, Self-Worth Issues, ask to tag, but not for evan who we're following so, but the tone is very platonic just because of the nature of the fic, can be read as platonic or romantic, i tried to keep it more ambigious, talking about death, technically near death experience, yeah connor is dead in this one sorry folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28238859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RammBook/pseuds/Be-morbidly-chill
Summary: Following their fight, Jared gets hurt. Evan deals with the fall out.
Relationships: Evan Hansen & Everyone, Evan Hansen & Heidi Hansen, Evan Hansen & Jared Kleinman, Evan Hansen/Jared Kleinman
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Shockingly, it's still You.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi, hello, I am back with a fic that, once again, is inspired by someone elses work! It's inspired by [this](https://kkamikazed.tumblr.com/post/618246156771819520/also-angsty-but-slightly-more-hopeful-concept) post from @kkamikazed both here and on tumblr, who wrote the lovely jared dies!au, also known as [omissions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029880)! If you are interested, feel free to check it out (but be aware of the tags)! 
> 
> In case you can't see what's in the link for one reason or another, it's of a tumblr post by @kkamikazed, answering to an anon that reads as follows: "Also Angsty but slightly more hopeful concept: Jared getting hurt in the fallout of gfy (how it happened and how badly are up for grabs) and it forcing a reconciliation with him and Evan bc Evan realised, holy shit, he couldve Actually lost Jared Permanently! (Is this pre or post-words fail? Does the letter even get released? Who knows!)"  
> The reply consists of two drawings, one of Jared without glasses and a band aid on his cheek. He looks like he is mid eyeroll and there is a speechbubble next to his head that says "haha sorry, wouldn't have wanted to be the second "friend" that you-"  
> The second drawing is of Evan in a hoodie hugging Jared, saying "Shut up please". Jared looks shocked and has tears in his eyes.
> 
> That pretty much got me inspired to write this whole thing (again, check out both their writing and drawings, they're awesome!) and so I did! I don't think there is anything too graphic or generally triggering in it that I didn't tag, but if I missed anything, please tell me so I can warn people who don't want to read it! It's from Evan's perspective so uh, fair warning, there will be a lot of self loathing and stuff, so if you feel that these things take a toll on you, I'd advise you to not proceed right here!
> 
> Also thanks to [@jaz-kleinman](https://jaz-kleinman.tumblr.com/) on tumblr aka Charlie for lowkey beta reading and answering my questions about whether or not stuff sounds good, but also for the immense amount of cheerleading. Your help is massively appreciated!
> 
> And yes, the title of the fic is based on this one line in Undertale.
> 
> If you notice any mistakes or want to just leave your general opinion, feel free to comment! :D  
> Hope you enjoy!

The memory of Jared's chuckle flickers through Evans' memory, nervousness still cursing through his veins, a charging phone with a broken cable. It’s fizzing.

They’re yelling.

“Maybe you don’t have any other friends,” he remembers taunting him, something like this, their conversation becoming unhinged afterwards. He remembers thinking no wonder Jared doesn’t have any other friends if he’s as shitty to others as he is to Evan. Fucking deceitful hypocrite. Grade A asshole, with a holier than thou attitude to boot.

Evan hated him. In that moment more than ever before, more than he’d ever hated anyone, including his Dad because his Dad is at least nice to _someone._

The cheap chair underneath him creaks. It’s the only sound his mind registers as his leg bounces up and down again, locked in the steady rhythm. He couldn’t stop it, even if he wanted to.

First, Jared makes fun of him, then he tries to threaten him and now? Now he’s here, pressing his buttons instead of being helpful in any way, shape or form. Evan’s fizzing. Jared is such an idiot, getting himself hurt now of all times. Out of all the ones he could have picked, it had to be this one.

It hurts.

Zoe calls him, he can’t recall when exactly, only knows it’s back when the light still shone through the window to his left. It’s still a miracle to that he managed to explain himself in a way she could attempt to understand, laying down the situation in the barest of terms.

He doesn’t remember her words, only remembers how she tried to comfort him with soft words and light jokes that weren’t enough.

Being angry is easy, easier than what follows, so he tries to keep the flame alive. He keeps feeding it stories and mean thoughts and sad thoughts too, but he’s tired. He’s tired of being angry, but he’s afraid of what comes after.

Jared’s contact had called him.

It had only been once, his profile picture lighting up and the stupid notes of his distinctive ringtone resounding.

He hates that his first reflex was to ignore it, to hit the red little button and hope Jared doesn’t try to reach him again. He didn’t.

He didn’t care. He doesn’t.

His mom is holding his hand and he can’t help but wonder if she even has any blood left in hers, considering how hard he’s been squeezing it. If she feels the pain he does?

He thinks she’s been talking to him, but he can’t tell, all the sounds in his head twirling around, leaving him amidst it.

None of the doctors and nurses around them stop, all of them hurrying towards their destinations elsewhere, far away from here, he observes. To them, they must be part of the wall, invisible and unimportant.

Evan wishes he would be far away from here too.

A doctor stops in front of them. “Heidi Hansen?” she inquires and Evan catapults himself out of the chair, leaping to his feet so fast he nearly falls over like a kicked robot.

“Is he okay?!” he asks, feeling like he has no air left in his body, all of it going into his vocal abilities, forcing mouth and brain to cooperate for once. She winces at his volume, short enough to be unintentional, long enough for him to see, her face warping back into a facade of professional neutrality seconds after.

“Don’t worry,” she starts, in the worst way possible, because of course he’ll worry _now_ _._ “He will most likely be fine.” Most likely means there is still a chance for it to go wrong and he knows it is, because his Dad said he’s most likely going to come visit, but he never did. “We’re pretty much keeping him in here to monitor him, in case anything goes wrong.” So it’s probable something does go wrong eventually.

“Can I see him?” Evan requests, having caught his breath, but peeking past her at the door. His fingers are caught in between the strands of his open hoodie, twisted as he pulls on the rope. She shakes her head as his fingers change colour.

“Unfortunately he isn’t in any condition to receive visitors right now.” Her tone of voice is sympathetic, pitying even, but she stands a little bit straighter, effectively blocking the door. Evan couldn’t push past her if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. He wouldn’t do that, that isn’t like him. Although…

Maybe it’s a good thing she is staying like this.

“Dr. Cho,” his Mom adresses her politely, a small smile tugging on her lips. “Can you tell us what exactly happened? No one else was saying anything to us and we’re a bit worried.” She looks at her clipboard for a moment, brows furrowed as her eyes skip over the lines.

“It seems like he touched an open wire on accident, despite his parents telling him to be careful.” An open wire? Why are there open wires at Jared's house? They used to renovate a lot, but are they still doing that? Shouldn’t they be done by now?

“That’s awful,” his Mom replies, sounding, for lack of a better word, shocked. “How could this happen?!” Dr. Cho clears her throat.

“We found residues of alcohol in his blood, we presume it has something to do with it as well.” She keeps talking and his Moms fingers are clutching the strap of her bag, but he can’t keep up with it anymore. His mind is lagging behind, one line stuck on repeat. Alcohol residue. Jared was drunk. Jared doesn’t drink a lot. There are only two instances Evan knows of in which he drinks and he doubts there are more because he got told once that he doesn’t really like the taste, when he’s drinking socially and - 

Oh no. It’s all his fault. His mind tunes in again, catching the rest of her sentence.

“- sorry, can’t let you in there. Immediate family and staff only.”

“What?!” The cry escapes his mouth before he can stop it, on autoplay. “Why not?! Mom is, Mom is, basically Jared’s other other Mom, with how much she’s been there and, she’s here now, right?! That has to mean something, right?!” They’re looking at him now, astonished and confused. He doesn’t get it either.

“Evan, honey, I know you’re worried,” she starts, stepping towards him.” But-” She goes quiet as he janks back his arm, wishing he could take back his words just as easily, almost falling against the wall behind him, an old car on the junkyard. Useless.

“He only drinks that much when he’s feeling bad and I, we had a fight and I said some really fucked up shit, and and I have to see him, _please!”_ His chest is heaving in a way that’s painful, his fingernails sinking into his skin and his eyes can’t seem to focus, darting from left to right and from right to left.

He’s wheezing, but not in a good way, it feels wrong but only because everything feels wrong, everything _is_ wrong, none of this was **ever** supposed to happen. As the seconds pass, his breathing becomes even more erratic, gets so messed up he is left gasping for air. He’s attempting to fill his lungs with oxygen, but there is none, he’s drowning in the wave of despair crashing over him he isn’t able to be on top of anymore, maybe because he’s always been bottom of the barrel -

Suddenly there’s counting, calm and collected and it takes a while until he recognizes that it’s his Mom and it takes just a bit more time to see her and then a moment more until he feels her fingers intertwined with his own. She’s smiling at him and he tries to return it, still trying to keep up with the numbers and the breathing and he tries to keep up with it all, really tries, but it’s _hard._

He feels drained when he can breathe halfway normally again, like the battery of his laptop that dies after barely an hour. Malfunctioning.

When he looks up, Dr. Cho is looking at him, the pity more prominent than previously. Her professionalism makes room for empathy as her face softens.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she remarks and Evan doesn’t know if she heard his muttered gratitude, but he hopes it is enough.

The hands inside his slowly move away, but he follows them instead, falling into open arms. He sinks into them, despite being at an age where he shouldn’t do it and a height where he shouldn’t be able to do it. She’s holding him upright, holding him how she always has, secure and strong and full of love. His nose rest in the crook of her neck, her arms are warm like the electric heater in his room, snaking around his body as he inhales her familiar scent. She smells like home.

Not for the first time, not even the first time today, does he think he doesn’t deserve it.

He recognizes he doesn’t.

“It’s not your fault,” she murmurs, somewhere close to his ear as she rubs circles in his back that soothe and warm him at the same time. If only her words could do the same, but he is aware they are a lie. He only wishes he could bring himself to tell her as well.

Realistically, they don’t embrace each other for long, but it feels even shorter. They only let go of each other, when the doctor approaches. She talks to his Mom who nods and appears to be listening intensely. Evan is instead distracted by the door. More specifically, the fact that the door isn’t closed completely, the door that is open a few centimeters. Still, he can’t see anything, so he moves, just the tiniest bit.

There’s an IV bag on a stand, positioned next to something that seems to be a bed. He cranes his neck to find out that it is, indeed, a bed. He glances back at the women, but they’re preoccupied. He takes another small step and his breath catches.

It feels like his heart stops for a beat as he stares into the room as far as he can. It doesn’t look real. The oxygen mask has to be fake and so does the EKG monitor right next to it. The person inside the bed is lying on their back and they aren’t moving.

 _Jared_ isn’t moving.

**He is not moving.**

“Damn,” Connor says from somewhere behind him and whistles. “You really fucked him over, didn’t you?” It doesn’t even sound like Connor anymore.

Evan is so distraught that he doesn’t even notice that the hair colour doesn’t match up, instead he’s lost in a twirl of half formed thoughts, feelings and memories. It takes the walk to the car for something solid to crystallize; they’re not allowed inside and Evan has to come clean. Who knows what will happen otherwise?

* * *

They’re sitting in the car and he can’t stop thinking about Jared, some sort of magnetic pull making it impossible to consider anything else.

He’s still thinking about how motionless he’d been, how he’s never like that and even moved around when he was asleep, so much so it would usually drive Evan crazy whenever they had a sleepover.

He’s still thinking about how his voice had cracked what feels like moments ago, even if it had to have been hours. Jareds voice doesn’t crack anymore, not since the summer when they were both fifteen and it had settled down to what it is now.

He’s still thinking about how he’d stormed out like he never wanted to see Evan again and how it nearly came true too.

Maybe that’s the reason they weren’t allowed inside, because Jared keeps holding a petty grudge like the time Evan had accidentally eaten the last of his snacks and Jared didn’t talk to him for a week until Evan finally got his Mom to replace them. Maybe Jared is doing fine and refused seeing him because of it. Maybe Jared hates him so much he never wants to see him again until he dies.

How typical that would be of him, the selfish asshole. Staying in a hospital all alone, simply so he doesn’t have to look at Evan.

It hits him then, that Jared is in the hospital. Jared is in the hospital because he almost died. And it’s Evans' own fault. Still, he’s over here calling him the selfish one.

There has to be a motor for his heart for him to think that, let alone think it true. Evan knows that if there’s enough electricity passing through you, it can damage your heart. Wouldn’t be a great loss for his.

He wonders, idly, almost absentminded, how drunk Jared was. If he’d passed out from pain and exhaustion or if he felt every second of it until someone found him. He doesn’t wish the latter upon him, but the cruel part of him thinks he deserves it.

If at least he got found or if he had to call help himself. If the phone call was a call for help, not that he helped even the slightest bit. Or maybe at the point when he got the call, the worst part was already over and Jared wanted to reach out anyways.

He wonders if Jared felt like him. Lonely, pathetic, trying.

He knows how that feels, how can he wish for another person to feel the same pain? Wasn’t that what The Connor Project was for, so that no one _ever_ feels like that?

Maybe he should have been the one to try being nicer. Maybe he should have taken the words to heart instead of putting them into Connors mouth. Maybe he shouldn’t have put any words in his mouth in the first place, should have listened and simply confirmed. Maybe then the whole thing would be over by now.

Or, hey, maybe he could have told the truth like he knew he should, just as an idea. He had so many chances to make things turn out different, make them turn out good, but how many did he take? Stupidly, none of them, because he was too selfish to think of anyone else, to think about the consequences or the effect on the people close to him.

He never thought anything could happen to Jared of all people.

He doesn’t know why, it’s not like he is invincible, it’s just. He’d been a constant in his life, from when they were little, had been there even if he didn’t want him to. Shit, he’d been writing emails about a dead kid with no questions asked. Jared is in the hospital because Evan hurt him more than he thought possible, because Evan was the one who made him so upset he felt the need to drink it away, because Evan made him do something immoral and _wrong_ and lashed out when he got called out for it.

His mind rewinds to Jared storming out.

He must have gone straight home. He wonders if Jared was upset enough to drink and drive. He usually doesn’t but there is a bottle, hidden between the backseat and the trunk, and he knows because he had been the one placing it there. Back when it still was a fun dare and they had still been friends. It feels like a lifetime ago now but it hasn’t been that long, realistically.

They’re parking.

Evan opens the door and gets out as his Mom locks the car, stares at the front of the house that’s synonymous with his home. The doorway is cracked, the paint is chipping away and the flowers on the window sill are withering.

When he steps inside, it feels cold, although slightly warmer than outside, where it is starting to get chilly. He walks past her into the living room and drops down on the couch. If he takes one step farther, he will collapse.

He remembers doing that a lot as a kid, because it used to be fun to pretend you are heavier than you are. None of the weight right now is fake.

He doesn’t have the energy to reach for the remote, so he ends up looking at the screen of their small television set-up. He never noticed how dusty it is. Maybe he should actually step out of his room more often.

She’s standing in the doorway, simply looking at him, jacket still on, shoes still on, bag still slung around her shoulder. She’s making a face he can best describe as filled with fondness. A soft love, deep embedded in the tiny moments, a steady pulse. He can’t quite grasp what prompts her to do this, but something about him seems to do the trick.

He’s tricked her into thinking he is a better person than he is, but she hasn’t left. Despite everything, she’s still here. Why?

Finally, after moments of watching him, she steps closer. She sits down next to him and it feels simultaneously like she’s too far and too close. He turns to her, slightly at least. He’s trying.

“Guess we didn’t know that was going to happen,” she says eventually. She sounds upbeat, but as always there’s an underlying sadness she tries to hide. Usually he’s the reason, so why should it be different this time?

“Guess we didn’t,” he agrees easily and puts his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. It’s zipped up and he wonders if he’s ever going to feel warm again, which is a stupid thought. Of course he is, he’s simply cold right now, of course it won’t stay this way. Of course.

“I can’t believe it that happened,” she continues, putting her elbows on her legs as she lets out a laugh that doesn’t sound amused. It sounds desperate, if anything. “It’s unreal.” He doesn’t remember the last time she’d been so… openly somber. She’s been sad, she’s been desperate, but she hasn’t been like this in a long time. He didn’t miss it.

For the first time in forever, he attempts to tell her the truth and nothing but the truth.

“I kind of thought…” Is he really ready to talk about it? But if he can’t tell his Mom, wonderful, burdened mother, then who else is there? He starts over again. “I kind of thought, he’d always be there.” He doesn’t mention the last two words, keeps the but in nothing but the truth for himself. It’s already selfish to think about it. At least it is not a lie. He’s tired of lies.

“Sometimes you think you have someone forever but you don’t.” Is that the moment she will tell him he hurt her so much she doesn’t want to see him again? He hums and hopes that’s enough of a reply for her. “Just like with your father.”

Maybe she’ll just tell a story about him, but maybe that’s just her asking in a roundabout way for him to leave and never come back. Maybe it’s a bit irrational to think like that, but what else can he do? Ask her when she starts hating him?

“Aren’t you supposed to be mad at me?” It breaks out of him, before he can change the wording, make it sound less desperate, before he can think about it and decide not to say it at all. He just can’t take it anymore, wants to know when her kindness shifts to justified rage again.

He’s a cracked phone and she’s holding him up. If she drops him, he’ll break. The worst part is feeling safe, because then the impact will hit harder. He doesn’t want to fall again, he wants to feel safe, he wants to be caught.

“Believe me, I still am,” she answers and turns her whole body towards him, focus sharp, eyes kind. “But…” She trails off, hesitating. It makes him wonder what it is exactly that trips her up in a way it never does. “One of your friends almost died.” The again is virtually palpable. “I think it’s okay to focus on that for now.” She rubs his arm once and he folds. Of course she doesn’t drop him, why is he being stupid once more?

“I don’t think we were still friends,” he admits, although omits more than one detail about it. It doesn’t count as lying, he doesn’t think. It feels like he’s being too truthful and deceitful at the same time. He wants to tell her that he doubts they ever were friends, but he knows that it would only serve to multiply her pity. He knows that Jared considered them friends, some weird subtype of friendship, above acquaintances but below anything farther.

It’s different from knowing his Mom loves him, she’s vocal about it, shows it more often than Jared. He’d never felt cruel in his actions, at least not in the beginning, it was more awkward if anything. Maybe it had still been that way, even if he couldn’t see it. If he’d noticed that earlier, had said something, anything, maybe things would be okay by now. Maybe he just can’t read his Mom correctly, maybe he’s reading too much into Jareds behaviour. It doesn’t feel like he didn’t care as much as he said. Maybe that’s simply a feeling you get when you know someone for a very long time.

And he had known Jared for a very long time. Knows, he corrects. Jared isn’t dead.

Yet, a voice inside him whispers. A voice that tries to convince him that things will get worse from here on, a voice so between here and there he doesn’t know if it’s Connors or his own anymore. Maybe it’s both, because really, what’s the difference?

He’d known Jared as well as he still does and despite their history, despite knowing they’re two peas in a pod when it comes to self-esteem issues - he had tangled one of his biggest insecurities in front of him. Just because he could. And he'd known it was, had known it before Jared stormed off, before he'd even said anything, had known it before they even had their fight, had known it because he knows Jared. And still, the knowledge hadn’t been enough to keep him from exploding, rather it had been the fuse, had been the fuel of a weapon with the intention of protecting himself. It wasn’t supposed to be a weapon, but he had used it as one. It’s his fault.

All of this mess right here is his fault.

He’s electricity meeting water.

Hot water runs down his cheek and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s crying.

“Oh, Evan,” his Mom says, so soft it already feels like a warm hug before she’s opened her arms. It almost hurts. He falls into her for the second time this day, desperately craving comfort. This time, she isn’t holding him upright, as he’s half lying, half sitting. This time, she is only holding him in her arms.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he chokes out, sniffling as he tries to avoid having to use his sleeve as improvised tissue paper. “That’s not what I wanted to happen,” he repeats, shaking his head so hard it makes his head hurt.

“I know,” she replies quietly, voice full of understanding as she keeps holding him, keeping him safe and warm despite everything. “I know honey, I know.” 

“I’m sorry,” falls out of his mouth like he’s a gumball machine overfed with coins. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to, anymore. Is it her? Jared who isn’t here? Connor who can’t be? 

All of them deserve one, deserve one he can’t offer. All of them deserve better, but this is all he has.

“I’m not saying what you did is okay,” she replies, but her words are infused with kindness as is her touch when she squeezes his hand. “But I forgive you.” Just like that? 

He needs to know why, but his body isn’t cooperating, shaking as he weeps loudly, the only sounds leaving his throat consisting of sobbed apologies. They’re raw and burning as he rattles them off one right after another. He doesn’t even comprehend what he is saying, what he means to say, it all turned into a gibberish mess. “I’ll always forgive you.” It’s an afterthought, no, an addendum to make sure he knows. But…

“Why?” he croaks, finally after multiple tries, a word that is more than a syllable if anything. Still, his voice is rough and scratchy as if all the tears left his mouth drier than the desert. 

She laughs at that, an incredulous, disbelieving laugh that makes him fear for the worst and hope for the best at the same time.

“You’re my _child,_ _”_ she emphasizes, enclosing Evans hands in her own, despite them being nearly the same size. “ _I love you._ You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, how can I not?” She loves him and what does he do?

“I really hurt you,” he brings out, hiccups making it difficult to push out more than a few words at a time, hindering him from forming a full, coherent sentence. He wipes away some tears with the unfortunate sleeve as he speaks. He needed to find something else to wear anyways.

“You really did,” she agrees easily, as if things are as easy as that. They never are, but maybe that’s just him. She rubs over his arms, a gesture that’s presumably meant to be soothing. It calms his body down, while at the same time his nerves spike. Although that could be related to her words more than her actions. “But you’re still a child.” He’s 17. “And you’re right, I haven’t been here a lot.” She looks around for a moment, at their living room that still has decorations from summer everywhere. “I always thought I was doing my best juggling classes, work, _you,_ _”_ There’s a beat of silence when she looks at him and the tips of her lips lift the tiniest bit. “But apparently that was not enough.” Her voice wavers on the last word and she glances away, but she takes a deep breath and starts over again, keeps going. She’s always been braver than him, in more than one way. “But now, now I _know.”_ She knows who he truly is, she knows what awful, dreadful things he’s done. He squeezes his eyes shut. “And now we can change things and do better than before.” We. If there’s one thing he takes away from her speech, it’s that she stays. She stays and forgives him, because she has hope in him. She thinks there’s still good in him, despite everything.

So he turns to bury his head in the crook of her neck once more, throws his arms around her and simply lets himself cry. 

Cry because he’s a disappointment, cry because his Mom loves him anyways, cry because he knows others won’t. Cry because he’ll have to tell everyone the truth and they will hate him for it. Cry because of the Murphys and Zoe and Alana and all the other people he knows he will disappoint.

He cries for the things he’s lost, he cries for the things will lose and he cries for the things he still gets to keep. There are things he will never get back again, things he will and things that were never his to begin with and in those tears, he starts to grieve for them.

He’s crying until there are no tears left in him anymore, he’s crying until he’s exhausted, he’s crying until his batteries, no, his body, is drained.

He ends up loosening his hold on her, sitting up and resting his head on top of the couch. He feels lightheaded. He can feel the emptiness as well as the headache that begins to form and wonders for a second if others feel that way too or if he is the only one. His face is sticky, but not in a tangible way, when he wipes away a tear, the water on there has only dried. 

He’s reminded of elementary school, when he’s watched other kids put glue on their hands, only to peel it away when it had gotten transparent, like they got a second layer of skin. As far as he knows, he never participated, only watched from the sidelines, but in this moment he wishes he could do the same to his face. Get rid of the rubbish that feels so foreign, get reborn with a new layer underneath, become another person entirely.

Some parts are still wet, there are fluids collecting on his chin, without being heavy enough to form drips that fall down on his shirt. It’s almost painfully real. He is real. He kind of doesn’t want to be, although that doesn’t change the fact that he is.

“Hey so,” she begins, pulling him out of his thoughts as abrupt as she pulls out another tissue from the box in her hands. The ground is covered in white, balled up paper he doesn’t remember using, although it has to be from him. She holds out the one in her hand for him to take and keeps talking. “I know it’s late and not even Tuesday, but would you like to make some tacos from scratch? I’m pretty sure we have all the ingredients.” She sings the last part somewhat, trying to make it sound enticing, as if the prospect of getting to spend time with isn’t enough already to convince him. 

Her loose smile is tentative, a metaphorical olive branch reached out like her real hand in front of him. He breaks out in a smile before his body can start crying again.

“Sounds great,” he replies, grabbing the tissue and using it to wipe his chin clean, followed by his eyes that must be red by now. He ends up stuffing it into his right hoodie pocket when he gets up. “Where do we start?”

* * *

The next day, he’s standing in front of the Murphy’s. Outside, it’s getting windy, almost stormy except there is no rain yet, only gray sky and chilliness, but they’re inside, having just entered through the front door.

Evan barely notices Zoe letting go of his hand, too busy trying to calm down. His heart had been beating faster than usual from the moment he’d gotten up, his legs had felt instable the second he entered her car and ever since entering the house, his breath has been shallow.

Cynthia greets him with a hug and a proud smile, Larry with a solid handshake, both of which he struggles to return in a way that’s genuine. Larrys hand lingers and he too smiles at Evan, although his face looks different when he does it, almost as if he is too sad to smile properly. It’s stupid, because of course he knows how to smile, he is mourning the loss of his son still. 

Maybe he knows what Evan is about to do.

“I’ve heard what happened to your friend,” Cynthia starts out as she is leading them to the kitchen. He doesn’t know what part of it makes his stomach roar as much as it does. Maybe it’s the fact that he managed to push all thoughts of the accident aside, maybe it’s her saying Jared is his friend, maybe it’s simply the nerves for what he’s about to do.

As soon as they’ve entered, she ushers him to a chair and never has he been more grateful for her overwhelming hospitality. Not that he’s usually ungrateful or something, right now he just appreciates it more than anything. 

Larry brings him a glass of water with a sliced lemon inside on a coaster and mumbles something about him looking like a ghost, which fits, because he doesn‘t feel properly alive. It‘s more like he‘s a video game controller. He is there, he is technically controlling his own actions, but he isn‘t alive in a human sense.

Larry pats his back and it is probably meant to be friendly and supportive, but Evan knows he doesn‘t deserve it. Shit, he barely deserves the kindness of his own mother.

To stop himself from spiraling, he takes a sip of the water. It tastes sour and he doesn‘t know if its only the lemon or something else entirely. He hopes it‘s the lemon.

"Mom, his name is Jared,“ Zoe is saying and Evan wonders when she‘d joined them. Has she been here the entire time or did she go to her room first?

Once more, he‘s reminded of Jared. He isn‘t the only one who knows him. Knows of him. Not that Evan knows him. He only knows of him, just like everyone else.

His mind skips back and he does a full body cringe, as if he didn‘t merely sip on lemon water but sucked on a whole lemon instead. It‘s not only the realization that he‘s been a massive asshole, but also that Jared has been right. Helping the Murphys stopped being his goal a long time ago. And he didn‘t notice. Or maybe he did, but he didn‘t care. Yeah, that seems likely.

But now, now he _knows._ Now he can change it and makes things better. He can improve. He has to. He cannot fuck this up. _A_ _gain._ He can‘t be selfish any longer. He can‘t, he doesn‘t know what the consequences will be this time and if they‘re anything like this one…

Evan simply has to make do. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Or something.

He takes another sip, his hand shaking. Luckily, the glass isn‘t full enough to spill over if he‘s shaking as light as he is right now. It will be fine. Probably. Maybe.

"Are you feeling alright?“ Cynthia asks. She‘s sitting in front of him, has been for a while, judging by the way she‘s sitting. Her fingers are curled around a olive green mug filled with something steaming. It looks dark, so maybe coffee. But he knows she prefers tea, so maybe it is just black tea. Or was Larry the one who liked tea? No, he was a coffee type of person, he‘s pretty sure.

Speking of, Larry is on his left, still standing. Evan doesn‘t know why but he doesn‘t have the capacity to care about it either.

Zoe has shuffled closer, he doesn‘t know when. When did he stop paying attention to her every move? Before all this, he used to watch her from afar, burn everything about her onto the harddrive that‘s his memory. At least he imagines that how that happens, he isn‘t too well versed when it comes to technology, considering he needed help to fake emails, which if you believe Alana, isn’t hard to do.

Zoes arm is on his back, supportive and well meaning, but ultimately it only serves as a reminder that time is running out. She draws shapes, but he can‘t concentrate enough to figure out which ones. Stars and hearts, probably, if he knows her at all.

Her arm feels heavy, although her touch is light. It‘s suffocating him. He‘s underwater, sinking deeper and deeper, her arm pushing him down. Or is it pulling him up?

He can‘t tell where up is anymore, but he doesn‘t want to go where she is leading him to. He can‘t stay like this or he‘ll drown, but won‘t water get into his lung if he‘s opening his mouth too?

But if his lungs threaten to burst, does he really have a choice?

"Uhm,“ he says which isn‘t really a word. It doesn‘t mean anything. "I‘m –" He stumbles over the words, the weight of it making it hard to do anything but fumble around. "It‘s, I‘m –" It feels like that time when his Mom wanted to gift him a laptop and he was supposed to pick one he like. He didn‘t know where to start back then either. In the end, he‘d gotten Jareds old one, which works well enough for his needs, so it didn‘t even matter what he picked. He can‘t rely on Jared this time. Quite the opposite actually, this time Jared relies on him to not rat him out. "Connor –"

Cynthia gasps, interrupting him – not that he‘s got his sentence figured out. It‘s only buying him time. She slaps her hands in front of her mouth in a way that‘s so comically dramatic he might have laughed at it were the situation different. Her eyes are wide open and she‘s stiff. She seems horrified.

"Oh Evan,“ she starts, reaching out. He doesn‘t want to touch her right now. He doesn‘t want to get touched at all. "This must bring back awful memories of what happened to Connor.“ Her voice is soft and her face is kind. Evan doesn‘t want to hurt her. He shuts his eyes, his hand still grappling the glass of water. No it doesn‘t, he wants to say. I didn‘t really know him, he wants to say. It was all a lie, he wants to say.

Only a choked sound pushes it‘s way past the lump in his throat.

"At least your friend survived,“ Larry says, rather tersely. Evans eyes shoot open to stare at him in disbelief. He‘d sounded so sad, but the words are so bitter it should hurt. The worst part about it is his confusion when Zoe chides him with an indignant, "Dad.“ He‘d meant for it to be _comforting._

Evan doesn‘t know if he is grateful for the distraction, relieved about the defense or if he feels patronized. All his emotions swirl together into a functionally useless mush. He feels everything and nothing all at once. He can feel himself sweat through his shirt. He didn‘t bring a change of clothes.

"I‘m only trying to tell him how good he has it,“ Larry explains, justifying his words. "It could have gone worse for him!“ When he raises his voice, Evan flinches. It‘s only too reminiscent of the time his parents constantly fought, shortly before they got divorced. He doesn‘t remember much besides the yelling, but he knows that he owned a gameboy that got smashed in an especially bad one. Jared laughed when he told him the story, but had offered to let him watch him play with his Nintendo DS as sort of a consolation prize. It hadn‘t helped him when he was alone at home, but it had been nice when either of them visited the other.

"We don‘t have to be glad it isn‘t worse!“ Zoe is yelling and it feels like he‘s missed part of the conversation, although it‘s unlikely he has. He knows he can‘t afford to space out right now. "Sometimes things just suck the way they are! It would be worse to pretend everything is fine!“ It doesn‘t sound like it‘s about him anymore, but he can‘t help but cower. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest and he is surprised the stress doesn‘t take him out right then and there. That would probably be too easy.

"Zoe…“ Cynthia is turning towards her, reaching out, although her comforting facade is gone. She looks angry and disappointed all at once. His stomach churns, will she look at him like that next?

"Why are you defending him?!“ Zoe‘s angry, angrier than he has ever seen her be, even towards Connor. If she is angry for him, why does it feel like she is angry at him?

"I‘m not,“ Cynthia tries to reason. "But yelling at your father is not productive.“ He wonders if this is one of her fads, one of those about parenting or if she truly thinks like that. Both versions seem biased at best and unfair at worst.

"Oh, so it‘s okay when Connor does it, but when I do it, it‘s suddenly a bad thing?!“ It‘s the last thing he can clearly make out, something that only comes from one person, because it is only downhill from there. All of them are yelling, screeching and shouting, sentences and arguments melting into fragments of fury and accusations sharp as glass. They‘re hurting each other deliberately, lashing out not as defense, but as purposeful jabs.

The Murphy family is breaking down in front of him and it is his fault.

"-the only thing he left us,“ Cynthia says, begging. To whom, he doesn’t know, what argument she tries to make lost on him. He thinks of the emails. Those stupid emails he should never have cowritten. The Connor Project at least helped people, he knows it did because they told him, he can’t bring himself to regret that part. The emails were supposed to help too, but they were the beginning of the end. No, wait the note was. Cynthia thanked him for the emails, in some weird, twisted way they helped at least somewhat.

He thinks back to himself all alone in the computer lab, typing and printing the piece of paper that ruined everything. He curses himself for ever omitting the truth, even if it seemed cruel in that moment to do everything but. He might be drowning, but he dragged down everyone with him because in the end he is as destructive as Connor, even if none of them know. Maybe because of it. Or would it be worse if they knew?

Evan looks at them, each of them either close to tears or already crying. It’s too late. He can’t hide it anymore because if he does, things will only get worse. Not knowing will only hurt them more, he has to.

Too many people dear to his heart have suffered already. He can’t keep living like this.

“Connor didn’t write it!” The glass is rolling off the table, shattering on the ground. All attention is on him. He’s standing. “He didn’t write the note, I did!” Three pairs of eyes are open wide, disbelieving. Cynthia steps closer and attempts to console him. He steps back, stumbles over the chair, crying. His voice is raw, gives up at points as he struggles. He struggles to find words to express himself, struggles to explain his reasoning in a way that makes sense, struggles to lay himself bare without impaling judgement upon himself. 

It’s almost painful to squeeze out the words, he’s wrestling with it similarly to an almost empty tube of toothpaste, except that the stakes are way higher and his lungs threaten to collapse any second now. He feels shaken up when he’s done, like he’s a soda bottle inside a cement mixer.

Their reactions are worse. The disbelief that’s accompanied by open mouths is bearable, but the utter terror as the reality of it sinks in makes him wish he left them a letter on the doorstep and fled the country instead.

“I’m sorry,” he howls, the only truth he can give them that won’t submerge them in regret. “I’m sorry,” he bawls, because he _is_ but won’t ever be able to tell them how much. “I’m sorry,” he yowls when there are no other words he can say.

There is no more comfort he can give but the fact that he regrets it, because it is the truth, nothing but the truth, the one thing he never wanted anyone to know about him. No one was supposed to know how deep he could sink. Now they know, so he can only stand there, awaiting their judgement.

At some point during his explanation, Cynthia has sunk back into her chair, eyes hollow. Now, she buries her head in her hands, stays silent for a tense second - and starts wailing. Every sob, every shaky breath, every sniffle is a new shock jolting through his body. 

Larry kneels down next to her, whispering hushed words of comfort, slinging his arm around her as his face twists into an expression Evan can’t read. He hopes it isn’t burning anger.

He turns to look at Zoe. Zoe, beautiful, lovely Zoe who looked at him, had wanted him out of all people, despite everything he was, despite how imperfect he is. Zoe, who looked like him like he hung up all the stars on the night sky just for her.

She looks at him like he shot every single one of them in front of her, fragmenting them in the process. Behind her eyes flares anger, put out by a wave of something he can only describe as betrayal. She turns away from him and takes off running to he doesn’t know where.

Evan knows he deserves their anger, hot and furious, but it’s put out by a wave of sadness. He could have dealt with anger, knew it would have been justified. Their disappointment is gutting. Staring at their faces makes it worse, so much worse. They’re full of questions he doesn’t dare answer. He can’t take it any longer, can’t stand to see the ramifications of his own behaviour, the reaping of what he’s sowed. It’s his fault, all of it.

He wonders when it will turn into pure unadulterated hate. Eventually, it has to, because how else would you end up feeling about the person who ruined your life, who gave you hope only to pull away the rug from underneath you, revealing none of it was the truth all along?

They don’t kick him out. They don’t really acknowledge him at all, actually, neither of them. The shards of glass still lie on the ground, soaked in water but none of them makes a move to clean it up. Evan doesn’t know how to help them any more, but maybe he shouldn’t. None of his previous attempts worked, after all.

When he leaves, there are apologies dripping from his lips, but they don’t seem to hear him, huddled together as they are. His words evaporate in the atmosphere before they ever manage to reach their goal.

There is no pride left inside him. Not for The Connor Project, not for managing to tell the truth, not even for leaving Jared out of it. He hasn’t achieved anything, except to scratch the surface of his iceberg of debt.

* * *

It doesn’t take long to walk home, but it’s cold and so he’s freezing when he gets back. His Mom isn’t here, but there are still leftovers. In a move that feels atypical for him, he sits down and actually warms up one of the tacos she put in the freezer for later use. It’s a bit soggy and tastes blander than yesterday, but it’s surprisingly good. Maybe not too surprising considering it has all his favorite ingredients in it, but still. He downs a glass of water as well, if only because it helped with his headache yesterday and it might today too. Besides, he’s pretty sure it helps him stay hydrated, which she’s like a hawk about, so.

When he’s done, he trudges into his room and changes into a pair of comfortable pyjamas to lie down in his bed and distract himself with his phone, so he can maybe fall asleep, ignoring the pit in his stomach. It’s early afternoon, but he feels tired already. Not tired enough to immediately disappear into the realm of dreams, but that’s where the idle distraction comes in. He just needs it to bring him down a notch so the part of him that clings to conscience can relax as well. He pulls his phone up, maybe there’s an interesting documentary on youtube.

No such luck.

What he finds instead is a new message from Alana. Admittedly, he’s been ignoring her previous messages, which clearly didn’t work out, considering their confrontation at school. He’s already been through so much, can’t he take care of it tomorrow?

His gaze falls onto the preview of the message. “Hey, Evan. I heard about what happened with Jared -” Despite himself, he clicks on it. There are some other unread messages, mostly about the fundraiser, which he ignores.

**Alana B. 10/29/2016, 1:16 pm:**

_Hey, Evan. I heard about what happened with Jared and because we’ve gotten pretty close, I ended up visiting him. He’s doing pretty okay, they are mostly keeping him for monitoring._

_We had a really nice talk =^^=_

_I informed the supporters of the connor project about it and paused the kickstarter for now, as I was more affected by this than I originally thought and considering a majority of organisational tasks falls onto me as co-president, I figured it would be better to take a break._

_If you plan on starting up the kickstarter on your own again, feel free to reach out to me :)_

There is a second where he just stares at the message. Alana paused the kickstarter? The same kickstarter she was so keen on reaching the goal for? Why?

Well, the why is in there, but it still doesn’t make any sense. Why now? 

Since when are Alana and Jared friends?

He replies to her text before he can talk himself out of it, before stress can get the best of him again. He asks when she’s free to discuss things before he can tell himself that it isn’t her business. Because really, didn’t he make it her business when he told her about The Connor Project? Didn’t he make it her business when she became co-president and took on most of the actual work?

Doesn’t she deserve to know the whole truth after all the work she’s put in while he neglected his duties, despite being the one who started it in the first place?

Doesn’t he deserve to get chewed out by her after all he’s done and not done?

Her response is immediate, inquiring if he would be able to talk in five minutes tops, because she will be busy later on with something he forgets again after reading. His mind really doesn’t have the space to keep that piece of information inside, too busy catastrophizing. Luckily, he can multitask, so he manages to send her a thumbs up emoji. 

He doesn’t like to video call with his phone as it overheats quickly or shuts down when he is talking for too long, so he reaches for his laptop that lies on his night stand. It’s still plugged in, because the battery charges so slowly that any time shorter than at least eight hours won’t properly charge it and it will die even faster. At least it works.

He opens it, pressing the round on-button and watches it boot up. As always, it takes forever, but it’s better than sitting around pointlessly, waiting for the inevitable to happen. Entering his password is already faster than everything the computer did on it’s own.

For a moment, he puts the laptop back, tucking himself in, his blanket soft, with the purple cover he unexpectedly liked a lot. Dread pools in his stomach, tense anticipation for the worst as he opens the undescriptive app to facetime with Alana.

At least for this conversation he has the familiar surroundings of his home which does bring a certain comfort, even if he doesn’t feel particularly comforted right now. If anything, things feel off, but there is no way he can get somewhere else with only two minutes left, especially somewhere with a halfway decent internet connection. The closest thing might be a starbucks, but he’s heard that they kick out people who only stay there to use the internet, so he’d rather not risk it.

There’s a minute left and he stares at Jareds icon in the corner. They used to do that a lot. It’s unimaginable that it might have never happened again. It was so close to it. 

Evan wonders if both of them are lucky they survived or if Connor is who didn’t. 

He presses the call button and there is a split second where he thinks she’ll deny his call, but then she takes it. For a moment she seems relaxed and then she looks at him. Her face doesn’t fall per se, it just becomes more serious. That doesn’t really help him feel better or at least okay about this whole thing.

Behind her, he can see a row of colourful binders, a gradient from blue over purple to red, each of them close to bursting, that’s how full they are. She’s at home this time, like him.

“Hey,” he starts off, adjusting the angle of his camera. Her face flickers on his screen and he ups the brightness to see her properly. It’s kind of pointless, he doesn’t _want_ to see her in HD when she ultimately unleashes her justified rage on him, but fiddling with something is calming. 

“Hey Evan,” she replies, tone while not cold, perhaps a bit frosty. Like she doesn’t want to talk to him. “You said in your text you wanted to talk about The Connor Project and the emails with me. Did you manage to fill out the questionnaire?” Her gaze is piercing, her expectations sky high. He doesn’t know if he can ever live up to that and he’s sweating. It makes his heart squeeze, but not in a good way.

“Actually,” he begins, starting over once more. “There’s something about the - “ He can’t tell her about Jared, shit. “About our friendship you have to know, it’s all, all of it it it’s -” She interrupts him.

“Fake?” He was going to say a lie but her assessment isn’t wrong. It _wasn’t_ real, so technically she’s right. “If that’s what you’re trying to tell me, believe me I know.” She sounds empty, her usual chipperness gone. “I figured that much. None of the emails were adding up, they made no sense chronologically, I mean you supposedly broke your arm in early June and still have a cast in September? Do you know what the average duration of a clean bone break is?” He grabs his arm almost instinctively, trying to shield himself from what he knows will follow. He mouths along to her next words. “Six weeks. And it’s so weird no one even saw you together before he died, which isn’t hard proof because you did say it was a secret, but still it’s so strange. Not to mention that Jared wouldn’t tell me anything either except what we already know, despite being the person to spread the news about you guys in the first place.” Her gaze becomes piercing. 

“I-” Evan tries, but she lifts up her palm, unmistakably telling him to shut up because she isn’t done yet. He goes quiet.

“I know he’s in on it and I know how you did it, so don’t bother. I only have one question.” He reacts by nodding, but it probably doesn’t matter anyways, as she barrels on either way. “Why did you let me believe it was true?” She hadn’t been angry before, passionate at most, but now she simply sounds sad. It’s not her calling him out anymore, it’s her asking an honest question. He freezes. Even on the shitty screen of his old Dell-Computer, he can see her starting to tear up. Still, she keeps going. “Why did you make me believe in a friendship that didn’t exist, why did you give all of us hope if it wasn’t true?” Her voice cracks on the word friendship.

Almost as if -

This time he has to tell the truth.

“I wanted it to be! I wish it was, I never never wanted it to go this far, I just wanted to help people, no one, no one was supposed to get hurt, it was supposed to be a good thing." He’s gesturing in a way that borders frantic, desperate to get his point across. 

In the beginning, it had worked too, it was supposed to be a good thing and it _was,_ but something went wrong somewhere and now it’s like he’s flipped a switch and it started hurting people. The only good thing of his creation still turned bad, simply because he was involved. Maybe it could have stayed a good thing without him.

Maybe the reason everything in Evans' life ends up going wrong sooner or later - is Evan.

“Well, people did get hurt,” Alana retorts curtly, precisely. Emotionless. “You hurt me, Evan and I don’t know if I can forgive you for that yet.” Maybe at all. 

He didn’t know that his screen could pick up the tears brimming in the corners of her eyes, but it can and he wishes it didn’t. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he answers uselessly as he falls short in explaining himself, his actions, his reasonings again. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

It’s weak and he knows it doesn’t count for an apology at all. It’s insufficient and pathetic, much like himself, much like he’s always been.

Alana stays silent, judging him. He tries to look as genuinely remorseful as possible, which means that he probably looks as guilty as can be. All of this is his fault. It’s his responsibility. He has to fix this and he has to do better. Not just for him, but for everyone who got hurt because of him.

“I’m sorry.” It resounds loudly in his room, despite it only being a step above a whisper. It’s so quiet on the other end that he doesn’t even know if she’s heard it at first.

“For what?” she asks, challenging him. She juts out her chin, her eyes glistening. He can’t say if it’s from unshed tears or if it’s the determination shining through.

“Everything,” he replies immediately and if he hesitated for a second, no he didn’t. It’s not enough and the silence stretches. He licks his lips and drops his gaze onto the keyboard. The print of the E is barely holding on. "For, for dragging you into this and, and for not thinking about the consequences and for getting people hurt, for getting you hurt, I know you were just trying to help and I ruined that for you, just like I ruin everything,” Shit, he is making himself out to be a victim too much, “and, and for…" He doesn't know how to end it. "Just… Everything. All of it. I'm sorry," he finishes lamely.

It's not enough and he knows it never will be.

He lifts his head, but only manages a small bit. It feels heavy. She's still looking at him, not longer than it takes for his heart to beat once. Her face is carefully neutral the way the doctors face was carefully professional when he cried in front of her. It feels like that's ages ago now. It hasn't been a day.

He thinks that it's kind of rare to see her without a smile. To see her not put the effort into it, because something is so terrible she doesn't have the energy for it.

"Alright," she says eventually, finally. The words are packaged into a practiced, distant tone. She's busying herself by moving some papers around and Evan sees that her fingers are covered in the ink of her pen, mostly index and middle finger, as if they were dipped into paint. Now that he ponders on it, he realizes he's never seen her write and come out with clean fingers, no matter the pen. Huh.

The rustling gets so loud, he cringes back for a moment as he gets pulled into the reality of things again.

"Alright?", he echoes, unsure. It's delayed and it's not more than a word, but it's all he is able to force out right now. Is this her way of saying she forgives him? Of saying she never will? Is this salvation or destruction?

She exhales through her mouth, releasing a sound that's almost a sigh but not quite. It sounds like one of the big ones he can hear his mom make sometimes when he's supposed to be asleep. He's heard it after his Dad left once and another time when she started her job as a nurse. It's the one that means you're letting go of something that is very important to you, something you know you can never get back again.

"Goodbye, Evan," she says in lieu of an explanation, and although he knows he'll see her at school tomorrow, it feels final. The screen turns black, his laptop shutting off in a moment that's humiliatingly perfectly timed.

He lightly places the laptop on his night stand, surprised by how delicate he’s handling it, despite everything. He plugs it in again, waiting for the small transparent piece on the side to light up to confirm it’s actually charging.

Only then does he fall back into his bed, huddling beneath the covers, pulling the blanket over his head. It feels childish to isolate himself like that, but it’s comforting all the same and right now he needs all the support he can get.

Somehow, talking to Alana had been worse. He’d been in the comfort, hah as if, of his own home, he didn’t have to walk home and he didn’t have to face her in person, but nonetheless it had been worse. It’s not about her invading his space or anything, even Evan knows that’s a silly notion.

The thing is, with the Murphy's he'd had to explain himself, lay himself bare and for them to see. Alana had seen right through him and still she had digged deeper, trying to find the seed of goodness. The only thing she found out was how pathetic he truly is.

Not that that one's a surprise.

He huddles deeper, pulling the blankets closer to shut up his thoughts. Is that why she approached him in the first place? 

It doesn’t matter now, he comforts himself. He can just hide and take a nap. After all, his Mom says after a good night's sleep, everything looks different. So, he tries to empty his head, wills himself to breathe calmly.

His body gets heavy once more, limbs dragged into the mattress by the force of gravity. His head feels airy and light, the blankets softly surrounding him, almost like a hug.

All of a sudden, his mind replays Alana's voice crack and he’s reminded of how she always calls people acquaintances instead of friends, a way to keep her distance even when she clearly craves contact. She told him how she feels invisible and alone, fire in her voice but tears threatening to fall down her cheeks anyways. 

He wonders if anyone ever checked up on her, or if she was the only one checking in on others, providing support without receiving it herself. She’s clearly aware what having none does to people so how must it feel to have to warm others while freezing yourself?

She was the one who took control of The Connor Project simply to support others, to provide a space to talk about your problems and a helping hand to get up again. She’s only ever wanted the project to succeed, make people feel seen in a way others didn’t do for her. Couldn’t do, perhaps.

He wonders how much of her energy and time she poured into it. How many nights she lied awake, texting people who needed someone to listen, how many hours she spent updating the blog, how many articles she read to inform herself how to run a kickstarter.

How much it must have hurt for him to accuse her of not caring.

He turns to his right side, staring at the now gray pillow in front of him that he knows is usually orange.

He thinks about how she put all this work into the project, how she always extended a hand no matter how busy she seemed to be already. And all that for people who don’t even have the courtesy to consider her a friend. People that take her help when it’s convenient only and ignore her otherwise.

People like him.

Doesn’t he feel like her? Then why did he treat her like all the others do? He of all people knows what that feels like, doesn’t he? At least, he used to.

Tears well up in his eyes.

What a horrible hypocrite he is. He isn’t helping to solve the problem - he’s part of it. 

Finally, he can answer her question. It’s silent and she can’t hear him, but he does it anyways. He lied because he is a terrible person. He lied because he started to become selfish and greedy, because he wanted more when he was on top, although helping others should have been the goal from the start. He lied because that was the only way people were listening to him and he wanted things to be about him for once in his life. 

He wanted someone to deem his ideas and thoughts important and care about what he had to say in the first place, because it felt like no one before did. He didn’t lie because it was fun or because he wanted to hurt others. He thought he was doing a good thing.

He wonders what Alana would think if he could hear him right now. It probably wouldn’t change anything about the pain he caused. She had looked like she’d handed him her heart and instead of holding and handling it with care, he’d thrown it to the ground so she could only watch it burst into thousands of small shards, so she is never able to pick them up again.

Seems like Jared isn’t the only one who got hurt more than he could ever imagine.

* * *

His Mom was right and wrong at the same time. Sleep did and didn’t help.

On the one hand, the sunlight streaming in through his window does make him feel better, on the other hand the memories of yesterday are haunting him. At least the pit in his stomach is shallower, although that could simply be due to his growling stomach.

He thinks about getting up, but rolls over on his side instead, staring on his phone to immerse himself into a world where everything is still okay and he didn’t ruin everything. This time, there are no new messages. He is alone.

Usually, when he doesn’t have any data left, he scrolls through his gallery, but he is pretty sure it remained relatively unchanged since last time. But what else is there to do?

He opens his screenshots at first. There are reminders about things he has to do, but also some of the most heartwarming things people sent him, about their families and friends, how much his words meant to them. Maybe it’s not all bad.

The deeper he gets, the more bizarre the content becomes, some screenshots of memes because he feels bad about downloading them because for some reason it always uses so much data and or wifi, although it really shouldn’t, some of messages with Jared and of pictures he found aesthetic for this reason or another. It’s a mixed bag and there are only a handful he doesn’t remember why he saved. Not that he deletes them or anything either way.

Next, he looks through his own photos. He isn’t good at taking pictures with this thing, although he is decent with a digital handheld camera or an instant camera. Didn’t he used to own one? What happened to it?

He contemplates it as he scrolls through landscapes and pictures that were supposed to be reminders for things that happened half a lifetime ago. A picture of a date, written down in his mothers elegant handwriting, probably for therapy. There are barely any selfies of him. The past two years or so he couldn’t bear to look at pictures of himself, so he’d become somewhat camera shy.

Just when he thinks that, his eyes fall upon a picture of him and Jared. A selfie, to be more precise. He doesn’t remember this, but Evan is turned away from the camera, so Jared probably stole his phone to take it. 

For a moment he takes it all in, Jareds smug expression, his own face illuminated by the harsh hallway lights, the background that’s a bit blurry. All in all, it’s a nice picture. How come he never noticed it before?

What’s it with him and not noticing things? 

How is this picture as new to him as the realisation that his behaviour has a negative effect on people?

His thoughts feel as slow and sluggish as his body, despite the multiple hours of sleep. His internal battery is empty, the events of yesterday and the day before having drained all of his mental energy. Not to mention he hasn’t eaten yet either. He also still has to take his meds, but all of it is too much right now. He’s still processing.

He grabs his phone a bit harder and stares stares stares at the picture. 

He didn’t snitch. He told everyone but he didn’t snitch. Jared is safe, at least in that regard. He tries not to feel too guilty about it.

Now everyone knows about it and maybe it’s selfish to think he doesn’t want to go through it alone. Everyone now knows what a terrible person he is, what terrible things he, stupidly, did. Everyone knows and there is no one left on his side of the ring.

He doesn’t want to go back to school tomorrow. Dread pools in his stomach, even at the fleeting thought, short but all too long.

Everyone is going to know what he did and is going to hate him for what he did and it’s his fault. At least some people he tells himself, at least he managed so much before Jared found a way to spin the narrative so he comes out as innocent. He didn’t tell Alana, but Evan did, so now the supporters of The Connor Project know.

He doesn’t need to look at the website to imagine what Alana told them. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to scroll down and read his heinous lies, watch the videos from when Alana hadn’t been hurt yet, see the condolences towards the Murphys. 

He doesn’t want to see Alana expose him and the Murphys confirm it.

So, he doesn’t.

He presses the off-button and the screen goes black. He wishes he could shut off just as fast, falling asleep and not having to deal with anything. It doesn’t work, of course.

It feels like he’s been laying in his bed for ten minutes and ten hours when there’s a knock on his door and his Mom peeks in.

“Hey,” she says, stepping inside. 

“Hey,” he echoes, pushing himself up a little. She doesn’t come closer.

“Have you eaten yet?” He shakes his head, mumbling something that’s supposed to say he doesn’t feel like eating. “What do you say if I make you a quick soup?” She is probably only gonna heat up soup from a can, but it _is_ a step up from having to order pizza. 

She sits next to him while he eats and while it should feel awkward, it doesn’t. It feels nice. She could do something productive but instead she’s choosing to spend it with him. The soup doesn’t taste like it’s out of a can.

He still doesn’t want to go to school, still doesn’t want to face Alana’s hurt and Zoe`s justified rage, still wants to shut himself off forever but when time turns against him once more and he eventually does he have to go - he finds he’s kind of okay with it.

For once, his Mom is driving him, despite probably being late already. She doesn’t tell him whether or not she is. He still thinks she is only driving him to make sure he doesn’t bail, but he can’t doubt that there is true love in her eyes when she looks at him in the rearview mirror. Besides, maybe he _would_ bail, although he hates missing school. Everyone would know why he’s missing and judge him for it, shooting him glances when he’s back eventually.

Better to get it over with quickly. Or something.

He takes a deep breath as he reaches for the door handle.

“Hey,” she says and his gaze snaps up at her. It’s not like he didn’t know she was there, so why is he so surprised? Maybe it’s how soft she sounds, but didn’t he just establish he knows she loves him? The look she lays upon him is fond, a slight smile lighting up her face. “I’m proud of you,” she continues, taking control and smiling widely at him, one of those that make her look as young as she actually is. “I know it must be hard on you, but I am proud of you for pushing through.”

“Oh,” Evan gets out. There’s a moment where he just stares at her. There is no hidden message, only openness and support. “Thanks,” he says, finding he actually means it. “I have to go, but uh, thanks for driving me.” The drive isn’t the only thing he is grateful for, but it’s the only one he can verbalize right now. He swings the door open and jumps out. 

He doesn’t stumble and closes the door behind him. He waves his her when she pulls away and turns towards the school, facing this head on.

It feels like there is supposed to be something, he thinks as he walks past the lockers. A hate mob chanting curses, graffiti with obscene pictures on his locker, someone pointing at him and making fun of the way he walks, _something._

There’s nothing.

He’s stepping in his classroom, still waiting on it to happen. He’s almost like a buggy phone the whole time, overloaded and jumpy, barely working. The shut off never comes.

He sits down and automatically pulls out the things he needs. What subject does he have right now again? English Lit? He likes english lit, it’s pretty rad, at least usually. Today he can’t concentrate.

He thinks about Zoe, who is in the room next door right now. He didn’t see her on his way, maybe because she is pulling strings in the background to ruin his life like he ruined hers. Maybe she’s organizing a petition to throw him out of school or she hired a hitman to take him out as soon as he leaves the school in the false belief he’s being safe. None of the options are Zoe, Zoe isn’t deliberately cruel, only hurt. She wouldn’t hurt him and on some level he is aware of it, but he can’t help but be _scared._

He can see Alana's back from his seat, her hair held by colourful clips that even seem to sparkle if his eyes are not betraying him. She isn’t looking at him, she didn’t greet him, she’s mostly ignoring his presence, but at least she’s here. Between them lies a row of chairs and other people move in their own paths, but she’s _here._

It’s meek comfort, but he clings to it because otherwise he’s falling free. There is nothing else to hold onto. He’s alone. His heart is racing as if he was actually in the air.

He isn’t listening, the teacher's words becoming incomprehensible noise, almost like the ones in Charlie Brown, but he doesn’t manage to catch the sentiment they’re trying to convey. At this point he is just drawing shapes on his paper, lost in he doesn’t know what. Not in thoughts, so much is sure because only when the bell rings and he shoves all his little knick knacks in his backpack, he realizes they were doing math.

He’s running so fast it feels like he’s flying. 

No one stopped him from entering the bathroom and no one stops him when he exits a few minutes later, despite being sure he looks like a disheveled lunatic. He’d tried to make himself look put together, but he didn’t expect it to actually work this well. No one calls him out on looking like he just had a panic attack, looking sick and guilty. He deserves it. No one stops him from walking through the hallways like nothing happened, no one points at him despite what happened, no one reacts to everything that happened.

He doesn’t talk to anyone, doesn’t approach anyone, which is good because no one is approaching him to talk either, which almost makes him feel worse. To realize how fast things slip back into old patterns, how fast people stop caring about everything they cared about a week ago. The kickstarter isn’t even over yet, merely paused and still.

No one bothered to ask him if he is doing alright like they would have last week. Like they wouldn’t have two months ago. None of the people in this school care. Luckily, the teachers count into that, because when he arrives late, she barely says anything and instead drones on about the nerve system without a pause. Maybe it’s not just bad they don’t.

He thinks about how Alana cared. She probably still does, just not for him. About him? Both seems likely.

He wonders if he still has Jared, because in some weird way he misses him, which is stupid because there have been longer periods of them not talking and sure, he’d been lonely then too, but this is a different type of lonely altogether. He can’t even see Jared. 

Despite them drifting apart, Jared had still asked about his broken arm, even if he had been really crude about it and he had listened to what he had to say, well enough to joke about it. Jared had offered to help for little pay he didn’t even end up giving him because he had known it wasn’t about the money, no matter if Jared painted it like that. Sure, he had demanded an amount that was ludicrous, but would he really go so low from that if he wanted to get paid? Jared had also helped him write emails from and to Connor, his designated best friend.

Connor who isn’t even real the way Evan imagined him to be, Connor who died and Jared who didn’t. It has to be ironic in some way, some sort of cosmic joke to be found here, but Evan doesn’t want to search for it right now or ever.

Jared who cared and Connor who didn’t.

Evan wonders how he could ever switch up these two. Connor didn’t care about him, as much as he wishes he did, as much as he wants the things he put in his mouth to be true. Connor didn’t care about him because if he did, wouldn’t he have stopped grabbing his arm so roughly when he cried out in pain? Wouldn’t he have given back the letter he so desperately asked for? Wouldn’t he have crossed out his name instead of pulling a prank on all of them from the grave?

It seems stupid now that he got so caught up in the whole signature thing, having equated it to care somehow. As if the person signing the cast was signing a contract about friendship, as if it works like that, as if friendship is about anything but voluntary spending time together because you enjoy each others company.

There are many things Connor did and more he didn’t do. Couldn’t do, perhaps.

He wonders if the real Connor wanted to apologize to Zoe as badly as fake Connor did or if he didn’t care enough, if he cared at all. If there was anything he cared about. At least at some point there must have been something, something about Zoe. You don’t get angry about a person being mentioned in a way you find creepy if you don’t care about them. Do you?

See, that’s the thing with not knowing a person prior to their death; you’ll never find out.

But everyone thinks he knows, everyone except those who are aware of the truth. But at this point is there even still a difference? Doesn’t everyone know the truth?

Evan doesn’t know. The itch under his skin drives him to check The Connor Project page, pushes him to figure out what exactly was said, and wants him to make a battle plan, trying to find a way to come out on top again. He ignores it or rather, puts it off. Not now.

It’s only after school is over when he can’t fight it anymore. He’s sitting in the last possible bus, the one that’s pretty much empty except for the junior that sits in the back and listens to music with giant headphones, bopping his head. 

Only when he has sat down somewhere in the last third, on a hallway seat because what if someone watches through the window, only then does he pull out his phone that’s pretty much always on the lowest brightness to save battery. 

He doesn’t have any new messages which isn’t any more surprising than the fact that he is a coward and checks twitter next. He has a few stray tweets directed at him, thanking him for his services and there are others asking him if Jared is okay with replies he doesn’t dare read. Don’t they know what an awful person he is? Why aren’t they insulting him?

He likes the first tweet he sees, but leaves the rest untouched, doesn’t react to them at all. They’re going to be disgusted enough as is, he doesn’t have to make things worse for himself and innocent bystanders. Shit, maybe he shouldn’t have liked the post in the first place but first liking it and then retracting it will make it even more suspicious. He leaves it like that.

It doesn’t take long before The Connor Project page is his last resort and he waits on his spotty internet to load it. He can’t keep living with this uncertainty. It’s already poisoning him and he really doesn’t want to figure out at which point it’ll be deadly. The newest post gets unraveled.

_Update as of 10/30/16:  
Before anything else we want to thank all of you for your support and especially to those who reached out, offering their help. Fortunately, Jared is doing well and is going to be released from the hospital tomorrow so there is no need to worry. _

_After some internal discussion we decided to make it official: We are hereby cancelling the kickstarter. After one of our members got hurt, we feel like we can’t keep it up in good faith, with the mental toll it has taken on all of us. Considering we started this project to help those who struggle with their mental health, it would be hypocritical of us to keep going without taking care of ourselves first. Thank you for your understanding._

_We are grateful for all the support we have received and the money we’ve received will be split and donated to the following organizations. All of them have proven themselves to be worthy causes for teenage suicide in the United States and some of them offer 24/7 services so that in times of need you can reach out and get the help you need._

Evan scrolls past the list of organizations and causes Alana hand-picked, a small description next to each link, followed by an explanation why this was the one she chose. It makes the guilt in his stomach increase tenfold, especially as he reaches the end and realizes Alana didn’t use his name. The signature is a simple “The Connor Project Team”, which isn’t a big fuck you or anything, but still feels like it. It has no right to hurt as much as it does.

His gaze falls onto the announcement that was posted a day before, but it doesn’t reveal any more information than the text message he received two days earlier, although it seems so far away now. This one she signed with “Co-presidents Alana Beck and Evan Hansen”.

He shuts off his phone and stares out of the window. A few more stops and he’s home. Well, not exactly, he still has to walk for around two minutes. But, soon.

It’s weird to think that everyone knows what happened but no one knows it’s his fault that it did. It’s even weirder that they know when Jared is going to be out but he doesn’t. Didn’t. Now he does and that’s decidedly a good thing. It’s good, he repeats, so his heart gets the message too and stops beating so hard it could get a contract as the drummer of a heavy metal band.

The bus stops on the station Jared always used, back before he got his driver's license and they didn’t see each other every morning anymore. Wait. This is Jareds stop. Jared, who isn’t in the hospital any longer and wasn’t at school either. He has to be at home!

Evan shoots out of his seat and runs towards the door with an energy he thought he didn’t possess. He jumps down the stairs and out of the bus so fast, he stumbles against the doorway and has to lean against the yellow metal for a second to regain his balance.

He still knows the way by heart, although he can’t remember a time where he walked it without Jared at his side, talking about one thing or another. He remembers so many days like this, it’s almost as if he isn’t taking a stroll down this neighbourhood, but one down memory lane. 

To his right is the little playground they used to visit when they were kids and to his left is the grocery store Jared's Mom would let them buy their snacks at for movie nights or the one time they camped inside a tent in one of their neighbours' gardens. When they had woken up in the morning, their teeth were glued together by melted marshmallows and they had been freezing but it had been fun nonetheless. Except that Jared got sick afterwards and Evan got sick after that.

The house still looks like it used to, even if the fence is different. Instead of a bright blue picket fence, it has metal bars that meet on top and the silver colour of it glimmers brightly in the golden sun. Evan steps closer, stands on the porch despite not having been here for years. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been here.

It still looks the same. 

The small chestnut tree has not yet turned orange, but he knows it soon will, like every year, and the wall is still painted in a light cyan. The small crack in the doorway above his head is still covered up and he only knows because he recalls when it wasn’t. It doesn’t look as polished as the Murphy's house, has none of the glamour their house has. It isn’t as kaput as his own home either. It’s familiar.

It’s strange being her after everything. Not being here would be bizarre. He would feel like a traitor.

He takes a deep breath and presses the doorbell. It sounds shriller than before, so he assumes they’ve changed it at some point, the joyful ring of the old one deep ingrained in his memory. Not that he can ponder on it for too long before someone opens the door.

It’s Mr. Kleinman, looking older than Evan remembers, not that he’d say that aloud, of course. His hair is beginning to gray on the sides, wrinkles are starting to appear on his face and he’s gained some weight, a beer belly so to speak. His face lights up when he recognizes who is standing in front of him and he stands a bit straighter. When he smiles, Evan is able to distinguish his wrinkles from the laugh lines that deepen as he starts to talk.

“Evan,” he says, that one word so full of surprise it is, well, surprising. It’s not the bad kind, though.

“Hi,” Evan replies and buries his fingers deeper into the lined pockets of the hoodie he chose to wear today. It’s his burgundy one, the one he rarely wears because it is too warm to wear inside, but too cold for the outside, which is something he faces yet again. Maybe he shouldn’t have forgotten his jacket at home, but it’s not like it was on purpose, so.

“Would you like to come in?” The man in front of him that looks so much like Jared pushes open the door so hard it slams loudly against the wall. Both of them flinch at the impact and Mr. Kleinman awkwardly shuffles to the side so Evan can enter.

The hallway doesn’t look different, which is comforting and disquieting at the same time. It’s almost as if he never left. The picture of them still hangs on the wall and Evan doesn’t have to see more than the frame to know what’s on it. It’s the one from second grade when he had lost his front teeth and had sounded frustratingly close to a snake. He had been so frustrated in fact, he’d started crying at school and his Mom had to come and get him. He remembers sitting in the car and her trying to comfort him by telling him Jared was feeling self-conscious because some kid made fun of him for being jewish, so he wasn’t the only one feeling bad. When they got home, he made her help him dress so he could wear the Spiderman shirt because as everyone knows Spiderman is jewish too and he is cool, so Jared could be cool too. Evan doesn’t think Jared is as cool as Spiderman anymore.

He steps closer to the picture. “You’re probably here to check on Jared, right?!” He’d forgotten about the walrus on Jareds shirt. Their hug in the picture is performative, both of them grinning widely into the camera, Jared’s right hand over Evans shoulder, his left mimicking the sign spiderman does, but he’s pointing towards the sky instead of the ground. Evan, basic as he is, had decided for a peace sign with his free hand. Oh, right.

He nods. “Where is he?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds raspy. 

“He’s doing well, despite the circumstances. You’re probably also wondering why he wasn’t at school, right?” Before Evan gets the chance to answer, he keeps talking. “The doctors told us to monitor him even more, although he already stayed at the hospital for monitoring, so we sent him to his room.” He flips his hand in a gesture that’s as dismissive as it is dramatic. Not surprising that that’s where Jared gets his dramatic flair from. “Don’t worry, he will be fine,” he adds, evidently having noticed Evans' discomfort, dragging out the last vowel. Evan wonders what part of him is so easy to read. Maybe it’s his face or how he holds his arm close to his body or how he’s hunched over. He stands up a little bit straighter and points at an off white door, behind which he knows Jareds room is located, the most likely place for Jared to be in. He doesn’t get further than a filler word.

“Yeah, sure, leave me alone to suffer while you see your friend, it’s cool.” It doesn’t sound like it’s cool, but he is huffing and turning around, so there is not much use in stopping him now, is there? Evan presumes he is going back to work, the door behind him falling shut almost silently. So he guesses it is indeed cool.

He couldn’t understand him as a kid either, but back then he had been as nice as now, so it always sort of balanced out, especially because he didn’t really care for details about things. Now he is only confused and understands the way he acts even less. Maybe that’s a Kleinman thing, not making any sense. He shakes his head and takes the three steps towards Jareds door.

It might be closed, but it’s always been paperthin, so he can hear what’s going on on the other side, which admittedly isn’t much, just Jared talking to someone, probably on the phone. There is no answer to anything he says except silence, so it has to be.

It really speaks to how bad the past days have treated him when he’s so twitchy already and he hasn’t even seen him yet. He misses the doorknob twices, effectively knocking and entering immediately. He can’t wait any longer, not for politeness.

When Jared turns towards him, his mouth forms an ‘o’. “I’ll call you back Al,” he says, the first thing Evan has heard him say in days, a thing that isn’t even geared towards him but makes relief flood through his body anyways, filling the pit. Jared hits a button on the touchscreen and in an act that’s so clumsy it has to be on purpose, he drops his phone instead of letting it slide into his pant pocket. He sighs, but leaves it lying somewhere between the two of them, rather choosing to cross his arms.

Evan takes a moment to simply look at him.

Jared is in a threadbare green shirt, loose sweatpants hinting at him only now getting out of bed, considering he’s one of those people who only wears sweatpants when they're asleep or sick. His right arm is covered with something that could be either wounds or scars that Evan doesn’t feel like acknowledging the cause of, let alone look at. Not now. There’s a bandaid on his cheek, most likely hiding another one. His glasses are off and his hair looks damp, as if he stepped out of the shower quite a while ago, but didn’t want to use a hair dryer.

He looks bruised, but picked up. He’s alive and he’s okay.

Jared looks at him expectantly, one eyebrow raised and Evan wonders if his eyes got a lot worse over the past two years or if he can still see him well enough to read him?

“You got you- you’re hurt,” Evan brings out after some stammering. It sounds more accusing than anything. This wasn’t what he wanted.

“Yup,” he replies, plopping the ‘p’ as he shifts his weight from his toes to the back of his feet, bringing some distance between them. He sounds neutral, almost guarded, the arms in front of his chest defensively locked in their position. 

Jared is _o_ _kay._ He is not dead, he is not in a coma, he’s alive and he’s _moving._

“They - at the hospital they said-” You were drunk. It was my fault, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. He can’t say any of that, so why did he ever start his sentence like that? “You dropped your phone,” he says instead, pointing at the device in the question. The screen is black, but not cracked because the ground here is made out of carpet.

“As it turns out it massively fucks with your motor skills when a lot of electricity shoots through your body,” Jared explains, his tone biting but his gesture comical. He does jazz hands for crying out loud. “Who would’ve thought?” Evan can’t stand the distance any longer, so he takes a step forward to pick up the phone, opening his mouth.

“The doctor said you were drunk.” So much for not being able to talk about it. To his credit, he does try to keep his voice light. Not that it helps much with the next sentence. “You could have died.” This wasn’t something he wanted to talk about either, but now it’s out and he can’t take it back. He grabs the phone and gets up again, this time closer than before.

Strangely enough, Jared looks sheepish as he glances away in a motion that’s close to rolling his eyes. He sounds so bitter it’s painful. “Haha sorry, wouldn’t have wanted to be the second “friend” you’ve -” Evan jolts and jumps closer, a sudden burst of energy making him feel bold and afraid all at once as he closes the distance completely. He slings his arms around Jared who barely reacts except that he lets out a bit of air. Out of surprise or annoyance Evan can’t say.

“Shut up, please.” It’s more a plea than an order. All his previous anger feels so stupid now. Stupid and hurtful. He hurt Jared so much, he doesn’t consider them any sort of friends anymore, not even a subtype. On some level he had been aware of it, but hearing it so clearly between the lines is gut wrenching. He knows he’s fucked up monumentally, he doesn’t need yet another reminder of how much he hurt another person, he truly doesn’t. He got it, believe him he _knows._

No human should ever mess up this much and he’s trying to fix it as best he can and he knows he isn’t good at it, but he’s trying.

At least Jared is alive and he’s okay and he’s moving. Wait, why is he moving? 

He isn’t pulling away so much as wiggling away, but he can’t will his heart to sink, buries his fingers in Jareds shirt instead. Jared’s okay and that's a good thing and he will not let go of him again.

“Why are you doing this?” Jared asks, his voice scratchy the way it gets when he is close to tears but refuses to shed them. He doesn’t say anything else and Evan doesn’t know if it’s because he waits on him to answer or because his throat is as tight as his own. Evan knows he’s confused, touched, probably still angry and maybe even disgusted at the contact. He doesn’t let go. He can’t.

He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to push him away again.

“I thought I lost you,” Evan tries to say, but it comes out as more of a whisper. He doesn’t tell him how scared that made him, how much he never wanted that to happen, how much he regrets everything. He just has to hope this is enough. He doesn’t want it to come true, he doesn’t want to burst into tears right now, he doesn’t want Jared to make fun of it if it comes out too passionately. So this is all he has to offer.

“Wouldn’t have been a great loss,” Jared jokes weakly but he stops moving. In fact, he is standing as still as a robot. 

“Just hug me back, asshole,” Evan mumbles, nudging Jared and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Jared smells like citrus and the laundry detergent of their childhood. Only now does Jared tentatively hug back, the contact sparking some flame in Evans insides.

He doesn’t really seem to know what to do with his arms, curses about the pain and the coldness of Evan dripping from his lips, so indignant it makes Evan smile. He pats his back at first, some bizzare imitation of a song he doesn’t recognize. Every beat sends a shiver down his spine.

Finally, they settle, fitting into each other almost like puzzle pieces except they’re not. They’re human and vulnerable and awkward, skin on skin on clothes, but they’re trying and Jared is alive. If that’s all Evan will ever get, he will be satisfied.

And he knows there is still so much to do and so many things to tell him, about the Murphys and Alana and about how he’s sorry but left him out and how he missed him although that one might be too truthful. He knows he’ll still have to deal with the guilt and he knows he should probably ask his Mom for another therapy appointment but right now? 

Right now he can just push it aside to deal with it later. Right now, he can just exist. Right now he can just immerse himself in the hug. 

So that’s what he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: hahaha a fun little idea  
> Also me: *writes a solid 8k for the first draft and edits it to get over 15k*  
> [Me:](https://e3.365dm.com/19/09/1600x900/skynews-drew-scanlon-blinking-white-guy_4786055.jpg?20190925134801)
> 
> This was fun to write but also super exhausting, especially because I actually do have some school work to finish. Whoops.  
> I do think I did a decent job tho and I am proud of myself, especially because I wanted to finish it before the year ends and I did!  
> Thank you for reading! c:


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